


The Chambers (Part I)

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [54]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Accounting, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Awkward Flirting, Calligraphy, Contracts, Dinner, Dinner Parties, Evening Strolls, F/M, Letters, Love Letters, Parties, Politics, Prostitution, Tea, Training, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24958708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: [Set prior to the beginning of the series]  Hisana begins her service in the Central 46 Chambers, where she rekindles a relationship that may serve her well.  She also receives a proposal that would free her from her contract.  Byakuya is forced to entertain his fiancee and gets suckered into drinks with several members of the Gotei 13.  Byakuya reaches an understanding with his fiancee.
Relationships: Kuchiki Byakuya/Kuchiki Hisana, Shiba Kaien/Shiba Miyako
Series: A Thin Red Line [54]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/93946
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	The Chambers (Part I)

Hisana catches the teacup before it shatters on the ground. Tea sloshes over her hand, hot and stinging. She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she forces a smile. “I’ll fetch you some more,” she offers the wiseman with her best charming smile.

The wiseman glances up at her from the tower of papers that he has constructed on the small table stationed outside the Diet building. A mild nod sends her on her way, but she can feel the burn of his gaze crawling across her shoulders and back. 

She supposes it’s a tactic: Knock the cup off the table and force the female server to fuss over the mess. Usually, the men take advantage of the situation and use the extra time to chat with her. The conversation is easy enough, and the men, for the most part, are well-behaved, if not slightly starved for attention. _Any attention_. Or, rather, _any attention_ that doesn’t revolve around legislative issues or administrative disputes.

Not that she blames them. If she had to spend the majority of her life locked underground with only irascible men for company, she might shatter a fair share of teacups just to get the attention of someone who regularly sees daylight.

“Another broken set?” the cook, Sotan, calls when Hisana steps through the little curtain that hides the serving station.

“Caught it in the nick of time!”

“Need a mop?”

Hisana shakes her head. “My apron soaked up most of the spill,” she mutters, gesturing vaguely at her tea-stained dress.

“Good girl!”

She chuckles lightly to herself as she waits for Sotan to prepare the next cup. Boredly, she taps her toes against the loose wooden board running parallel to the counter. 

“Who was it?” asks Sotan, craning his neck slightly to peer through the gap in the curtain. For his heavy build, Sotan moves with the sprightliness of a much smaller man.

Hisana lifts a shoulder in the barest of shrugs. “He’s younger,” which wasn’t saying _much_. “Younger” for most of the wisemen and judges meant late middle years. With a handful of notable exceptions, most of the men were either battling gray hair, baldness, bad hairpieces, or a combination thereof.

“Good looking?”

Hisana frowns, nudging the loose board again, “I didn’t notice.” 

Other than Masao Kuchiki, Hisana can’t think of another member of the Chambers who is conventionally handsome. And, if she had to wager a guess, Masao Kuchiki didn’t need to resort to breaking teacups to get his servers’ attention.

“It’s Lord Omaeda,” says Kamegiku as she steps through the curtain. The oiran dries her hands on her red apron and sighs. “And, no, he’s exactly as unpleasant to look at as you’d imagine. His temperament, however, is twice as odious. You’d think he was a Lord of one of the Five Noble Families with all that arrogance.”

Hisana grins. “Omaeda?” she echoes, “isn’t that the name of one of the Vice Captains?”

Kamegiku nods, adjusting the sleeve of her indigo kimono. “Of the Second. If you can believe it, he’s even uglier and more arrogant. Lord Omaeda’s cousin is Vice Captain Omaeda.”

“Sounds like you have some experience with the Vice Captain,” says Hisana, glancing sidelong at Sotan, who is pouring the cup of tea.

“Yes,” says Kamegiku with a scowl, “an awful dinner party hosted by one of my patrons. _Terrible_. His behavior worsens with liquor.” 

Before Hisana can reach for the cup, Kamegiku has intercepted her with graceful ease. “I’ve got it. You have to do the mail and office cleaning tonight, right?” she asks, lifting a smokey brow.

Hisana exhales a long breath. She had almost forgotten. “That I do.”

“Go on, then. The correspondence appeared to be _overflowing_ when I stopped in this afternoon.”

“It’s that time of year, I suppose,” sighs Hisana. 

_Autumn_. In addition to the administrative and legislative correspondence that piles up when the Chambers is in session, autumn also brings an avalanche of social calls. Parties. Festivals. Weddings.

“That it is,” says Kamegiku, taking the cup in her hand. “Also, Lord Yogi is underwater this session because his page has taken ill so don’t be surprised if you find him passed out on his desk. He has a small table near the door. Leave the mail there and slip out.”

Hisana gives a nod of her head, her fingers plucking away at the knot in the back of her apron. Once loosened, she folds it over her arm. “Thank you, Kamegiku.” She bows low before turning and bowing goodbye to Sotan.

Then, she is off.

First, the letters need sorting. This task always earns Hisana a few papercuts. Tonight is no different. 

Next comes the delivery. Mail is delivered twice a day, with the oiran and female servers rotating who performs the night shift. For efficiency’s sake, Hisana also lugs along a few cleaning supplies so she can sweep and dust the offices when she delivers the mail.

It takes all night. It’s not such a bad tradeoff, Hisana tells herself as she smooths the wrinkles from her simple indigo cotton kimono. One day a week is endlessly long, but, for the rest of the days, she has plenty of time to herself. To think. To read. To gossip with the other oiran. The only ghost of her life in the Pleasure Quarters takes the form of letters. She receives them from the House, from her attendants, from her patrons, and, when she’s very lucky, from her friends.

Letters. Her lips twist the side as she glances down at the last batch in her care. 

_Lord Yogi._

Remembering Kamegiku’s advice, Hisana delivers Lord Yogi’s mail last, hoping to meet an empty office. These hopes are dashed the instant she slides open the door. 

A low guttering lantern burns in the corner of the room, and Lord Yogi sits primly on a plump cushion, sipping at a steaming cup of tea. Tidy stacks of papers and books line the walls and take up every inch of the three desks in the room. A long scroll with the words “peace,” “serenity,” and “tranquility,” hangs on the wall facing Lord Yogi.

Hisana wonders if Lord Yogi looks to the scroll to _remind_ him to breathe amid the chaos of pressing expectations.

“Hisana!” he cries, seeing her just as she fumbles to set the letters neatly on the desk nearest the door.

She blushes and straightens, bringing her arms close against her sides. “Lord Yogi,” she says and bows, “apologies for my intrusion.”

“No intrusion. None at all. Here, come, come!” he waves her into the room.

Wearily, Hisana smiles and pulls the door shut behind her. “Congratulations on your pending bundle of joy,” she says softly, crossing the floor to the cushion that he drops in front of his desk. 

With as much grace as she can muster at the daybreak hours, she kneels, forcing her worn body into perfect seiza.

He beams at Hisana, thoughts clearly drifting to his pregnant wife. “Yes. We are immensely happy.”

“How is Lady Yogi?”

“Glowing.”

Hisana heart lifts, and her lips curve into a smile. A genuine, light-hearted smile. “How wonderful,” she says, meaning every word.

“My wife gives full credit to you.”

Hisana blushes. “Um, I don’t know about that,” she croaks. “I’m afraid I didn’t do _much_.” Truth is she didn’t _do anything_ except lie to him to save her bordello money. 

He grins at her knowingly. “I take it your methods weren’t exactly peer-reviewed.”

Her blush creeps across her neck and down her back. “Um,” she says, offering him a contrite glance, “it was only a _hunch_.” A lie is what she means. Selling pretty lies for pragmatic purposes is her bailiwick.

His grin lengthens. “A hunch I think I was a little too willing to purchase wholesale.”

“It worked,” she teases through an anxious smile, feeling uncomfortable at the unspoken ray of truth rippling between them.

Lord Yogi chuckles and returns her smile; it is soft and kind, just like smiles are supposed to be. “Why are you here?” his brows furrow. “In the Chambers, I mean.”

Her brows climb. While shocking, she supposes it's possible not everyone is aware that oiran compose a large portion of the _serving girls_ every month. “Oh, it's part of my duties as an oiran.”

“I see,” he says, head tipping to the side, as if his thoughts have pulled the threads of his posture lopsided, “so that’s where we find our servers.” 

Hisana nods.

He strokes his jaw thoughtfully. “Where are you going after this?”

“To bed,” she says through a giggle. 

“My page has taken ill,” he begins, his keen eyes on her. 

Her stomach clenches. Oh, no. She can feel a request coming, and she’s fairly certain she won’t like. Not one bit.

“You were very insightful about the Chamber’s measures during out time together. I think you might have some use working for me.”

“Oh, that’s too kind of you, Lord Yogi—”

“I feel a ‘ _but_ ’ coming,” he says, pulling his chin down. His keen eyes examine her over the top of his glasses.

Hisana smiles nervously, her lips a tense line pulled taut and bloodless. “ _But_ —”

“ _There it is_.”

“I don’t think we’re allowed—”

“Poppycock!” interjects Lord Yogi. “I am a senior member of the Diet. If I want a serving girl to be my page while my page is out sick, they won’t deny me the privilege.”

Hisana’s heart kicks in her chest. She isn’t so convinced this is prudent. “Lord Yogi,” she begins, but her words abandon her.

He tilts his head back slightly, eyes fastened to her, almost seeing _through_ her. “What if I sweeten the pot?”

She loosens a sigh, but she holds back her next protest long enough to consider his proposal.

“Be my page while you’re here, and I will teach you how to review your ledgers at the Peony House.”

Her lips part, but, before she can get the words out, he interrupts her.

“My house is pledged to House Kuchiki.” He pauses to adjust his glasses, the lenses of which catch the low lantern light. “As part of my service to the family, I go through their books and taxes at least four times a year, and I always marvel at how they keep some of their _investments_ so bound up. Fees are structured in accordance with no rational basis and then are compounded. Costs are sometimes completely fabricated to add to the debt, manufactured out of _thin air_. Tied to nothing. It’s fantastical. And, the thing is, no one ever questions it. Most of all never the _women_.”

Her eyes widen, and the air turns bladed in her throat. “I don’t want to—”

“You don’t want to know what? How much you’re worth to them? Or, how much you should be pushing back against their charges?”

Hisana’s hands knot in her lap, and she drags her teeth across her bottom lip. The skin cracks, and the iron tang of blood blossoms on her tongue. She swallows it without flinching. She swallows it _hard._

He’s right. She has been stupid to turn a blind eye to her ledger. The thing is: All the women in the Pleasure Quarters do it. They have no power to dispute the inflated debts that balloon every month. And, knowing the extent of the fraud somehow makes their plight _worse_. 

“I have no authority to request an accounting of the ledgers, and, even if I did, I have no power to fight the findings,” she mutters under her breath.

“We can change both of those things.”

Her gaze flies to him, heart picking up speed. “What?” 

He dips his brush into the ink before offering it to her. “What do you think I do all day, Hisana?”

Her cheeks burn. Her heart hammers inside her chest. Is he really? Can’t be. And yet….

“Draft the language in the bill. It will pass without question. The bordellos have a weak lobby here, and the few members of the nobility with interests in the Pleasure Quarters are deluded enough to think the women are either too complacent in their circumstances or too stupid to know the difference.” 

He doesn’t need to ask twice. 

In an instant, Hisana is at his side. In the next instant, she has the brush in her hand, already drafting the language inside her head. Before she can put ink to paper, however, Lord Yogi stops her.

“Draft the language, and I’ll take it as consent.”

She glances askance at him.

“You’ll give me your nights to work as my page.”

She grins and nods.

“I’ll relieve you of any other obligations for the remainder of your time here, then.”

“Done,” she says, a fire sparking in her stomach. 

* * *

The heat of summer abates, leaving behind the crisp winds of autumn. The milder weather affords Byakuya more time to practice without fighting back the languor of exhaustion. He holds onto this opportunity with both hands.

Sweat beads at his temples and coats his back. A particularly hard strike ripples across his body, pulling at the fibers of his muscles and his latticework of bone. His hair slips from the hair-tie that, in the beginning, had been fastened securely, holding back his long locks at the nape of his neck.

He turns. His swing is full of wild force. The sword cuts the air with a squeal. As he begins to pull back, his heart stops when he feels the _clang_ of live steel radiate up his arms. His gaze flits up to find Grandfather’s zanpakutō staving back his swing.

Immediately, Byakuya slides Senbonzakura down. The sound of metal skating against metal rings out, filling the yard. A few of the Squad Six men look on. Some dip their heads to one another and share whispered confidences. Others watch, eyes aglow with rash hope. Hope to see their Captain and Vice Captain clash.

There will be no demonstrations today, Byakuya thinks to himself ruefully. 

With thoughtless ease, he sheaths his zanpakutō and lowers his head. “Captain Kuchiki,” he says in an icy monotone.

Grandfather follows suit. With a metallic _tinging_ , his sword is back at his hip. “You’ve been training all day, every day, for the past _week_.”

Byakuya lifts his head, unsure of what to make of Grandfather’s observation. His voice does not sound _pleased._ Indeed, it skirts the tenor of a scolding. 

“The reports are all in order on your desk,” says Byakuya, wondering if Grandfather’s comment was made as a commentary on the promptness or completeness of Byakuya’s other duties as Vice Captain.

“And, I thank you for your timeliness in all things related to this squad, Byakuya,” says Grandfather. His lips twitch as if he is holding back the urge to scowl. “But there are still _other obligations_.” Grandfather turns slightly in the direction of the division offices.

Following Grandfather’s gaze, Byakuya jerks his chin up to discover Suiko standing in the doorway of the captain’s office. She wears the bright yellows and deep oranges of the season, and, as she waves excitedly at him, her long sleeves flap back and forth like the beating wings of a bird.

Byakuya suddenly _hates_ birds. 

“You didn’t really think you could hole yourself up at the division all day, every day, for a month, did you?” asks Grandfather, tone edging between reproaching and amusement.

Yes. Yes, Byakuya did think that throwing himself into his Squad Six duties was the appropriate solution to his month-long confinement. It accomplishes two goals at once: He could improve his skills, and, by avoiding the Heishi family entirely, he would keep his word as being a _perfect_ affianced man. 

One look into Grandfather’s face, however, tells Byakuya that his winning strategy has ruffled a few brightly-painted feathers.

“Suiko requests your company for a walk,” says Grandfather, stare fastened to Suiko, who looks out onto the training lawn with an expression of frightened innocence.

Byakuya glances down at his shihakusho. It’s drenched in sweat, and his hair is soaked through to the ends. He’s also fairly certain that he smells of _more_ than just fresh earth and dried leaves. 

Exhaling a heavy breath, Byakuya clenches his hands into fists and glares into the little throng of shinigami gathered only a stone’s throw away. The men immediately scatter, eyes wide and faces darkened with _guilt_. 

_Wonderful_ , thinks Byakuya, observing them with a frown. 

His personal life is not only fodder for the social pages but also for his squad-mates. Just what he always _dreamed of_.

“Clean up at the barracks,” Grandfather’s deep baritone crashes over him, “then entertain the young Heishi lady tonight. _All night_.”

Byakuya throws a heated glare Suiko’s direction. He catches the look of horror that widens her eyes and sends her hands grasping for the collar of her kimono as he storms off in the direction of the barracks.

He takes his precious time preparing himself. He doesn’t keep many supplies at the division, which forces him back into the black and white silks of the shihakusho, albeit a _clean_ shihakusho. Tying the last knot of his silks, Byakuya steps into heavy nightfall. The sky is dark, and heavy fast-moving clouds blot out the stars and moon.

Reluctance turns him leaden, and, slowly— very, very slowly—he trudges toward the Squad Six offices. The captain’s office shines like a brightly lit jewel among the darkness. 

He wants badly to escape this place, but he doesn’t. Duty forces him to his knees in front of the door, and he raps his knuckle against the wood three times.

“Enter, Byakuya,” Grandfather’s strong voice urges him.

Byakuya slides the door open. Inside the room, Suiko sits seiza on a plush cushion. Between her fingers is a delicate teacup, which she smiles cheerfully over when she sees him.

“Lord Byakuya,” she calls, dipping her head down politely. “Thank you so much for obliging me. I heard that you enjoy your evening strolls, and I thought maybe I should make them a habit, too.”

 _Gods, no_ , his thoughts scream.

Grandfather’s icy stare, however, forces Byakuya to sit stock still. He barely even breathes for fear of betraying his inner mortification at having one of his nightly rituals intruded upon. 

He will never get a moment’s peace if he doesn’t staunch this desire of hers tonight.

“May I go for a walk, Grandfather?” asks Byakuya, teeth gritted, hoping to make a display of how _intensely odd_ it is that the heir to the Kuchiki family must ask permission for a walk.

Grandfather bristles, looking as if he judges the question stupid. Then, realization appears to strike, and a corner of Grandfather's mouth turns up into a wry grin. “Of course, Byakuya.”

“May I get that in _writing_?” Byakuya cannot help himself, but he manages the question so benignly that Grandfather only responds with a bland stare before reaching for a blank white sheet of paper. 

Grandfather dips his brush into the ink and begins drafting an order. “Yes, Byakuya. You may go _wherever_ it is that Lady Suiko desires to go for _as long as_ she desires to be.” 

Byakuya does not miss the cutting glare that Grandfather serves him along with the written order. Byakuya takes the sheet and gives it a glancing look. With decided adroitness, he folds the paper into quarters and tucks it inside his kosode. 

“You may go. Enjoy yourselves.” Grandfather levels Byakuya with a glance. The words are spoken with the intensity of a threat. 

When he and Suiko step out of the Squad Six office, Byakuya doesn’t know what to do other than _glower_ , which he does. Expertly. Part of him wants to flash-step away from her, to seize the little freedom he has gotten for himself, and play false when she issues her deserved complaint to his grandfather. Byakuya, however, pushes this thought aside when his mind's eye conjures his grandfather’s voice roaring about being a perfect lord to his fiancée.

So, Byakuya decides to cultivate a silence so punishing as to squelch all but the most fluttering of glances. It works. Suiko's glancing looks do not linger, and she does not speak a word.

His stride is long, and he does not even think to shorten it for Suiko. An error he only realizes when he notices that she is a few paces behind him, panting. He presses forward, pretending not to notice, until she lets out a small mewl.

“Lord,” she heaves, “Kuchiki,” her breathing labored.

He slows, but does not stop, and glances sidelong. 

Suiko stands in the middle of the dirt road, bent at the hip. Her fingers go claw-like and dig into the tops of her thighs. She draws several heavy breaths before Byakuya finally stops. Impatiently, he waits for her to comport herself.

“So-sor-sorry!” she cries, gasping for a few more breaths, “I guess I don’t exert myself that often.”

He stares at her, perplexed. They were _walking_. Hisana _walked_ all the way from the estate to the Central 46 Chambers, which was about ten klicks distance. They were _half-way_ down the road from Squad Six to the _marketplace._ Squad Six practically _empties_ into the market.

“What _do you do_ in your spare time?” he asks, incredulous.

Suiko jogs toward him, and, once she reaches his side, she answers, “Oh, I embroider.”

He stares at her. 

“And, I play the shamisen. And, I have tutors who teach me math, and history, and color-theory.”

“Color-theory?” He quirks a brow.

“For painting.”

He continues on. Wordless.

“Do you like the shamisen?” she asks.

“No.”

“Painting?”

“No.”

“I suppose you’re not interested in sewing, either?”

He thinks she is making a joke, but he doesn’t care. “I am not.” 

“You like the koto?”

He glimpses her, askance. Yes. He rather likes the dulcet tones of the koto. He thinks, though, he wouldn’t like _her_ playing the instrument.

“I don’t play it very well,” she admits. “But, I could learn.”

“I’m not interested in _amateur_ performances,” he says curtly and turns to continue toward the marketplace. 

_Where are they even going?_ he wonders. Does she want him to buy her a trinket? Is she hungry?

He’s hungry, a fact he realizes just as they step into the town square. It smells of well-seasoned meats cooking over fires. Spices, hot and savory, blanket the market, and he is suddenly very aware that he has been training all day without having much to eat to sustain him. 

“Would you like dinner?” asks Suiko, bouncing to his side.

He grimaces. Does Hisana _bounce_? No, she most definitely does not _bounce_. 

“I can treat,” she says, a hopeful fire burning in her emerald green eyes.

Byakuya stares at her _appalled_. They are in the Seireitei. His family _owns_ the best restaurants and tea houses in the market. They needn’t pay for a meal. At least, not one that is prepared _well_.

How _galling_. Even Hisana knows this, and she hasn’t even had the chance to patronize one of his family’s establishments. She spoke at loving length one evening about a review that had been published in the paper, expressing her deep desire to try the dishes sampled in the article.

He should’ve thought to bring her one of the dishes. He had always assumed . . . assumed that he could take her some day to try it in person. He never even bothered to remember which _dish_ she had gushed over because he was so convinced of this fact.

It hadn’t mattered to him then because he would’ve gladly paid for her to sample the entire menu. _But_ ….

All of his family restaurants were in Seireitei, and, even as his concubine, Hisana wouldn’t be allowed in the city. As a courtesan, she is only permitted access into the Seireitei to entertain at sanctioned events and to serve the Central 46. No such privileges exist for concubines. This realization pricks him, and he startles a little.

“Lord Kuchiki,” Suiko’s voice tugs at him, forcing him to glance to his right.

 _Kaien Shiba_. 

The Vice Captain gives Byakuya a glancing look before turning his attention to Miyako, who waves them closer. 

Every molecule in Byakuya’s body cautions against this.

“C’mon,” calls Captain Shiba, who appears around the corner. On his heels is his lively Vice Captain, Rangiku Matsumoto, who wholeheartedly throws her arm over her head and gestures for Byakuya and Suiko to join them. 

“Are you hungry?” Vice Captain Matsumoto practically yells.

Suiko glances up at Byakuya hopefully. “Do you want to go?” The glimmering street lights dance in her eyes, and she smiles sweetly at him.

No. He absolutely _does not_ want to be trapped in another dinner party. The last one went _so_ well. 

His hesitation, however, is mistaken for tacit acceptance. Suiko’s hands bunch in the slack of his sleeve, and she yanks him after her.

“Byakuya!” Ukitake greets, beaming. “It’s so nice to see you out.”

Byakuya holds back a dark glower. His eyes instead trail to Suiko who returns the captain’s good cheer with interest.

“Is this your _wife_?” Kaien asks, raising a thick brow. He knows better, and the smirking glance he cuts Byakuya’s direction signifies as much.

Byakuya wants to punch him. He ignores the urge. It is a common feeling that he has to rein in whenever he is forced to interact with a Shiba. “No.”

“We’re engaged,” explains Suiko, cheeks tinting an unseemly beet-red color.

Miyako offers Byakuya an assuaging glance. Her lips part, but she must think better of her words because she does not speak them. 

“That is so exciting!” cries Vice Captain Matsumoto, hips swaying loose, like she’s had a few too many drinks. “Two weddings so close together! How did we get so lucky?”

Captain Shiba issues his Vice Captain a silent plea to abort her current trajectory. His wordless rebuke, however, does not seem to register, and the Vice Captain adds a tipsy, “C’mon. We need to _celebrate_ the Shiba and Kuchiki weddings!”

Kaien grins, eyes full of mischief as he glances over at Byakuya. “Indeed. Who would’ve thought that Byakuya Kuchiki and I would be wedded so close together? We _should_ celebrate with drinks.”

Miyako’s lips slant to the side. Helplessly, she turns to Captain Ukitake. He seems to share her concern, and he trades a cautious stare with Byakuya.

“There you all are!” Captain Kyōraku’s voice booms over them as he appears around the corner. At his side stands Captain Sōsuke Aizen, Vice Captain Gin Ichimaru, and Lord Tadahiro Konoe. 

This configuration of party members has somehow gone from bad to _worse_. 

“Vice Captain Kuchiki,” greets Shunsui with a knowing wag of his brows, “and is this Little Byakuya’s betrothed?”

Suiko perks up. Her smiles widens. “Captains Kyōraku and Aizen, and Lord Konoe,” she says, bowing politely. 

“How delightful,” notes Gin, “she’s so very different than the woman I was picturing.”

Byakuya glares at Gin. 

Captain Aizen steps forward to intervene on his adjutant’s behalf. “Will you be joining us, Vice Captain Kuchiki?” he asks, voice gentle. The lenses of his glasses reflect a beam of bright white light as he lifts his head to get a better look at Suiko.

“Yeah, Byakuya. You should come. Let's meet your wife,” interjects Kaien, teasingly, “I mean, wife-to-be,” he amends, catching Miyako’s sharp glare. 

“Yeah, Vice Captain Kuchiki!” Matsumoto chimes in, her pink scarf fluttering in the wind. “We really should get to know the new addition to the family.”

“Indeed,” Tadahiro says, eyes glimmering with malice and amusement, “don’t deprive of us another happy couple.”

Byakuya shakes his head. “I’m afraid—” he begins, but Suiko cuts him off.

“That sounds wonderful!” she says, excitement spreading across her face. “It’s so nice to meet Lord Kuchiki’s shinigami friends.”

Byakuya feels the color drain from his face, and, helplessly, he turns to Ukitake, who looks on just as flabbergasted as Byakuya feels.

“It’s settled, then,” says Tadahiro, “drinks to celebrate the lovely _couples_.” He pauses and stares gleefully into Byakuya’s eyes.

Byakuya bristles, but he is powerless to stop what happens next….

* * *

_'Dearest Hisana,’_ begins the letter that Hisana receives from Suiko. 

Yes, somehow letters from Suiko have become a _thing_. A _thing_ that Hisana must address along with her many _other_ letters. She won’t lie. Writing to Suiko _stings_. 

No. 

It _burns_.

Every character threatens to turn Hisana heart to ash. They break her, weakening her restraints. But, she reads and responds as is her duty. 

She does it because Suiko is well-meaning. She does it because she feels a deep, driving affection for Lord Byakuya, even despite his sudden indifference toward her. She does it because she hopes—even though it pains her—that Lord Byakuya’s sudden indifference stems from the advice that she has given to Suiko. 

Hisana doesn’t want to lose Lord Byakuya’s heart. Desperately, she wants his affections. She wants to feel his heat, to know the weight of his arms like she knows the weight of her silks. 

_Yet_ …. 

She knows that she is being selfish with her desires.

Lord Byakuya owes only one duty between them, and that duty is to Suiko. He owes Hisana _nothing_. He has paid for her time. Promptly. Without hesitation or discount. All of his debts—moral and monetary—have been satisfied where she is concerned.

But, it _hurts_.

_Really, really hurts._

Hisana does her best to fortify herself as she reads on:

> _I did everything you advised. Everything. Nothing has worked._
> 
> _Spicey food? He wouldn’t eat the curry I made. I spent hours on it! His response? It was too cold, and it wasn’t up to his standards._
> 
> _I got tickets for kabuki. He said he had an assignment. I didn’t see him for a week. I was so worried over him that I finally inquired about his health to Lord Captain Kuchiki, who seemed confused as to what I was talking about. The Lord Captain must’ve taken pity on me because, the next thing I know, he invited me to the Squad Six offices, where I wait for THREE HOURS to see Lord Byakuya. Three hours. Can you believe it? What was he doing for three hours?_
> 
> _When he finally deigned to show up, three hours later, I invited him on a walk, remembering how you said he liked his evening walks. Mistake._
> 
> _No person could’ve anticipated just how poorly this walk would go. First, he basically flash-stepped to the market, leaving me to chase after him. I thought I was going to die. I was doubled-over by the end of it, gasping like a fish. He stopped for half a second to frown at me, like I was a burden._
> 
> _I then stupidly tried to make small talk with him. I’m pretty sure he hates everything about me. We share no common interests. He doesn’t like shamisen, or painting, or embroidery. I even offered to learn the koto for him, and he told me not to bother. He didn’t want to suffer through amateur performances. Can you believe that? What arrogance!_

Hisana chuckles through the hand pressed against her mouth. “Byakuya,” she says his name with nothing but affection even as she shakes her head disapprovingly. 

She remembers his reticence to her charms well enough. The first few times she tried to angle for a kiss? Flat rejection. Broke her heart. His irascible nature, however, somehow made him more endearing over time. And, winning his kiss after _almost ten years_ was the best prize she has ever stolen for herself.

> _Well, him insulting me was the best part about the walk. When we reached the market, I suggested we get dinner because I was hungry. He looked at me like he wanted to die. All of the color suddenly drained from his face, and I was preparing for him to retch on my shoes._
> 
> _I was spared from the retching by Kaien Shiba and his fiancée, Miyako. They waved us over. Such a kind, model couple. We chatted with them and Captains Ukitake and Shiba and Vice Captain Matsumoto. They all seemed very supportive of our nuptials and invited us to take drinks with them._
> 
> _I’m pretty sure Lord Byakuya would’ve rejected their invitation had Captains Aizen and Kyōraku and Lord Konoe not shown up and encouraged us further to take dinner and drinks with their party._

“Tadahiro?” Hisana’s breath catches in the hollow of her throat, and she shivers under the thick shawl that tightly embraces her shoulders.

This isn’t going to end on a positive note, she just knows. 

Reflexively, her eyes flit to the unopened missive with Tadahiro’s distinct handwriting that sits on her little writing desk, waiting for her response. Dread fills her at the sight of his flowing script. It has been waiting for her response for two days, and, yet, between her duties during the day and, now, her duties as a substitute page for Lord Yogi at night, she just cannot find the energy.

Hisana tears her attention away from Tadahiro’s letter and continues reading Suiko’s note:

> _Dinner started out well enough. Captains Ukitake, Kyōraku, Aizen, and Vice Captain Ichimaru and Lord Konoe sat on the opposite side of the table from us. I sat between Lord Byakuya and Vice Captain Matsumoto. Beside her was Captain Shiba, then Vice Captain Shiba, and Miyako._
> 
> _We mostly talked about Vice Captain Shiba and Miyako’s upcoming nuptials. Everyone was really happy, and probably too many drinks were had when the happy couple shared a quick kiss. Well…. Things went downhill fast after that._
> 
> _Both Lord Konoe and Vice Captain Matsumoto encouraged a similar demonstration of affection from us._

Hisana’s eyes widened at this. “Oh no,” she murmurs to herself. “You can do this Lord Byakuya,” she says softly under her breath, hoping that Byakuya can gracefully extract both Suiko and him from this nightmare of protocol.

The easiest way that Hisana can devise to side-step the inappropriate request is to turn it on Lord Konoe, who she has no doubt instigated this particular _incident_ , and bring it back to the Shiba couple. Chastising Tadahiro for stealing the Shibas’ happy moment would have silenced him, and, likely, one of the captains—Ukitake, Kyōraku, Shiba, or potentially even Aizen—would have intervened to turn the focus away from Suiko and Lord Byakuya.

> _I thought Lord Byakuya might go through with it. We had both had a fair share of alcohol. I think we both drank to appear busy so as to avoid the peppering of questions about our own wedding arrangements._
> 
> _He leaned down. His breath was warm and smelled of plum wine. I’m pretty sure my face turned ruby-red. I know this sounds pathetic, and maybe it is, but I wanted his kiss so much. I wanted this little intimacy just to keep me hopeful that maybe our marriage might work in some small way._
> 
> _Well, he leaned down, and I tilted my face up, and—_

Hisana stops reading for a moment. Her heart aches, and she feels the bile roiling her stomach. She knows she shouldn’t feel this way—that she hasn’t a right or a claim to deserve this feeling—but pain crowds her. It is heavy and crushing, and, if she isn’t careful to shove it down, it threatens to steal her breath.

“Kiss your lady, Byakuya,” says Hisana, chest tightening as the air leaves her lungs. “Kiss her convincingly.”

> _—he stopped short, eyes piercing and gray. I will never forget the look on his face. It was so sharp, so biting. He turned that fierce gaze to Lord Konoe and declared the request improper. He said he wouldn’t put his affection on public display, especially since we were celebrating Vice Captain Shiba and Lady Miyako. He then made a toast in their honor._

“Well done, Byakuya,” says Hisana, the pressure in her chest releasing with each heartbeat. Although, she would’ve paid valuable money to see _Byakuya Kuchiki_ personally toast _Kaien Shiba_ to his face. While she has never met Vice Captain Shiba personally, she has heard enough stories from Lord Byakuya to know the men do not agree on anything. Ever.

> _‘I wanted to cry. I was humiliated. He is repulsed by me, and he displayed that fact to everyone in attendance at the dinner. The rest of the night went by in a heady blur. I think at the end I may have fled. I know I arrived home alone feeling tipsy and sickened._

Hisana presses a hand to her chest, right above her heart. “Oh, Suiko, that’s not what he meant by it at all.” 

No. For all of the faults that Suiko has neatly cataloged in her many correspondences since Hisana has taken up residence at the Chambers, this one tallies in Lord Byakuya’s favor. Hisana very much doubts he would have been inclined to make a public spectacle of their affection at a private dinner in front of superiors and rivals. She would’ve done just as he did to spare him from the embarrassment of the request.

> _I want to thank you so much for mentoring me, Hisana. I know I am asking too much, but your guidance has been invaluable, and, I’m afraid that if this arrangement is perfected, you may be my only ally in the House of Kuchiki._
> 
> _Very truly yours,_
> 
> _Suiko Heishe_

Hisana folds the letter and returns it to its envelope. She doesn’t know quite how to respond to Suiko, and, at that late hour, she’s sure anything she writes in response she will hate in the morning. Not that it really matters, she thinks with a grim sigh. Every suggestion that Hisana has made thus far has blown up spectacularly in Suiko’s face.

“Maybe calligraphy?” Hisana pauses at the thought and jots it down on a snarled piece of parchment as a reminder for the morning.

She then picks up her ever-increasing stack of letters and thumbs through them. The handwriting she seeks isn’t there. What remains is only a collection of love letters and whatever Tadahiro has sent her.

Probably a death sentence. 

She gazes upon the letter with the same level of dread as a man sentenced to the fighting pits, unarmed, gagged, and bound. But, it is her duty. She has to read the _damned_ thing, and she has to respond.

Unfortunately, she has no Yua or even Okuni or Tojuro to lean on for support. Yua, at least, is very good at previewing the letters, gently summarizing them. Okuni and Tojuro routinely share letters with Hisana for her to pilfer phrases when she feels her writing has become too stale.

Yet, somehow, Hisana doesn’t think even if she had access to Yua, Okuni, or Tojuro it would matter. No. She can feel the heaviness of the words, their grave implications, even as she holds the sealed missive between her fingers.

The stock of the paper is good, she observes. The Konoe kamon is printed with fine ink. Tadahiro’s handwriting is lovely to behold, her name written almost lovingly across the face of the envelope. 

When she peels back the flap, she feels like she’s simultaneously ripping out her own heart. 

It must be done, she tells herself. 

She allows herself one centering breath before taking the plunge:

> _My Dear Hisana:_
> 
> _I am deeply sorry for the actions I took during our recent dinner party. I am also deeply saddened to learn of the hardships that my actions have imposed on you. I can make no excuses for what I did during the dinner or subsequent to it. I take full responsibility. For everything._
> 
> _I love you. Sincerely. Wholly. Completely._
> 
> _These feelings are hard to admit and even harder to write. I know that, at times, I have not left you with the impression that I loved you. You have alluded to this fact on several occasions, most recently during my family’s exhibit at the Celebration of the Arts Festival. If I understood your meaning then, you believe me to be fickle, preferring the excitement of lovemaking to the work of love._
> 
> _I would’ve agreed with your assessment of me years ago, when we first met. But, having known you for six years, I can no longer claim such feelings. I have never wanted another as much as I have wanted you._
> 
> _I know your life has not been easy, but I wish to correct that now. I wanted to wait until after your service to the Chambers was complete to make this offer, but I feel that I must do so now before any more time passes between us._
> 
> _Please allow me to purchase your contract and grant the me privilege of seeing to your needs until death parts us._
> 
> _I do not expect an immediate reply to this proposal. I realize this may feel sudden, but I can assure you that it is not a sudden inclination on my part. I have discussed taking this measure with my family for nearly a year. When I saw you after the Cherry Blossom Festival, speaking so serenely with the other lords, and how they responded with such great admiration for you, I realized that I might lose you if I did not act swiftly._
> 
> _I hope to discuss this plan more fully with you after your service is complete. I understand whatever your decision may be._
> 
> _With great admiration and love,_
> 
> _Tadahiro_

Hisana stares into the pages in complete horror. Icy fingers of fear lock her in place. She can’t feel her heart or her own breath. She can’t feel anything at all. Just endless numbness. 

Her hands shake, causing the pages to tremble like leaves in a gust. 

She can’t believe it. 

Did he really offer to buy her contract? Did he promise to secure her future? She wants to vomit. 

_No, she_ _is going to vomit_.

Hisana leaps to her feet, bounds across the floor, and retches into a small wastebasket. Nothing comes up. She hasn’t eaten much all day. Just some rice, fish, and tea early in the morning. 

Her body shudders, and she swears she can hear her bones clatter together.

 _Why_? The question repeats in her head on an endless loop.

Why did he ask her? Why force her to make a decision? He is one of the most powerful men in Soul Society. He could purchase her contract and toss her in the river. No one would stop him or notice.

_That’s not true, though._

Lord Byakuya might notice. Or, at least, he might have noticed before _now_. And, she has no doubt that the Kuchiki’s involvement in her life is the only thing preventing Tadahiro from claiming her like a farmer claims a prized cow.

Nervously, Hisana glances over her shoulder. For all her lovers and friends who have thought to write her, Lord Byakuya is not among them.

She has not received word from him in the last two weeks since her service began. She rebukes herself that it is selfish to want his confidence, but, right then, she is suffocating in silence.

Had he really confided her secret to his aunt? He had sworn to her that he did not. She hadn’t wanted to believe him, but hope proved to be an irresistible poison. Then, he gave her and her friend his personal chambers, and, the morning before she left, he had kissed her. 

He had told her that at least a piece of him—the piece locked away in his sword—loved her.

Was any of that true?

Again, her gaze flies to her little writing desk. It doesn’t feel true right then. It feels like callous games.

Normally, she would write to him. But, she _can’t_. If he is attempting to distance himself for the benefit of his fiancée, then she can’t disturb that.

What is she going to do? 

Maybe sleep will help. Maybe in the morning, when she’s less tired, she will re-read the letter and discover it’s all a giant mistake. One big misunderstanding.

And, if it’s not one big misunderstanding?

Concubinage appears to be off the table for the Kuchiki. If it were otherwise, Lord Byakuya would’ve told her. His silence, however, is _deafening._ When Tadahiro realizes this—that the Kuchiki do not pose an impediment to his plan—he will take what he wants without condition.

This leaves Hisana with a limited window to attempt to negotiate the terms of her concubinage at Tadahiro’s behest. She must be ready with a “yes” the moment she sees him after her service, and she must have the conditions thought-through well enough to march them out on a single breath. She will provide the pen, the paper, and the witness to ensure everything she needs to survive under him makes it into writing. 

Otherwise, she is at the mercy of a man whose cruelty knows little boundary.

* * *

Byakuya stands with a shoulder braced against the doorframe, eyes drinking in the garden. A cold snap has slit the flora, and color flows across the courtyard. Spatters of scarlets, buttery yellows, and deep ambers drip from the limbs of the trees and pile across their thick roots.

Anxiety gnaws at him, and he rolls a loose thread from the hem of his sleeve between his index finger and thumb. It centers him between bouts of thoughts that swirl like flurries in a storm. It also keeps him from unspooling when his attention drifts to the sounds of the woman seated behind him. 

Said woman is fumbling with . . . _something . . ._ _papery._

He glances askance to find Suiko sitting seiza at a low table in the middle of the floor of the Weeping Willow room. Carefully, she begins setting the table with a few items from the bag at her side. Paper. Brushes. Ink. 

Before Byakuya can return to staring into the garden, Suiko catches him. Her gaze is steady and kind. “Milord appears distracted,” she says and offers him a smile.

He frowns and rips his attention away from her.

“Is milord waiting on something?” she asks, voice bright.

He doesn’t answer. 

Byakuya shifts further into the doorway. The cool autumn breeze tugs at his robes before rushing inside the room. The gust sends the papers that Suiko set on the table scattering across the room.

She lets out a small yelp.

He ignores her. He ignores the sounds of her feet padding across the tatami. He ignores the chase that ensues. 

Instead, Byakuya’s thoughts turn to the abyss in his mind, the place he goes when he wants to avoid. Avoid his circumstances. Avoid the nagging anxiety playing the strings of his nerves. Avoid his obligations.

Like the obligation seated patiently behind him.

“Lord Byakuya Kuchiki.” An attendant’s voice draws him back to the garden, back to the doorway, back to reality. “Correspondence,” says the attendant. Hesitance bubbles in the man’s voice, as if he isn’t quite sure whether he has permission to intrude.

Byakuya tips his head back slightly, which summons the man closer. Byakuya takes the attendant’s offerings before slipping inside the room, clacking the door shut behind him. 

Swiftly, with heart pounding in his throat, Byakuya shuffles through the letters. His brows knit together, and the bend in his lips deepens. 

_Nothing._

The letter that he waits for isn’t there. What he holds in his hands amounts to little more than a collection of social invitations for the Autumn Festival. Dinners. Drinks. Art exhibits. Theater.

His heart withers.

“Expecting a letter from someone?” asks Suiko, thumping the bottom of her bundled pages against the desktop to straighten their arrangement.

Byakuya doesn’t answer. Instead, he obsessively thumbs through the letters a third time. Still nothing. Frustration threads through him, shortening his already diminished nerves. 

With thoughts racing, he rhythmically taps the end of the letters against his hand. 

Hisana should’ve responded by now. She has always been careful to reply to his correspondences, even when in service to the Chambers. Never more than a day or two delay, not _three weeks_.

Her silence leads him to the uncomfortable conclusion that his family is screening his letters. 

He could try sending the letters while at the Sixth, but he has a sinking feeling that, given his family’s hold over the squad, the letters would fare no better. The other option he considers is sending the letters to her via another squad. Captain Ukitake might prove to be an understanding confederate in this instance. The problem with that solution is that, while his letters may reach her, Hisana’s replies would likely be intercepted when filtered back to him.

Waiting appears to be the only solution. Waiting in the dark. He wonders if she understands why he isn’t writing to her, if she holds his silence against him, interpreting it as coldness or worse.

“Who’s milord waiting so eagerly to hear from?” asks Suiko. 

Byakuya’s attention drifts to the door, and his jaw clenches. 

Mostly, he wonders if Hisana has received word from Lord Konoe. He wonders if Tadahiro has already made his proposal. Byakuya wonders if Hisana is considering it.

_If she has already accepted…._

“Is it Miss Hisana?” Suiko’s small, silvery voice cuts through his mounting fears.

Byakuya turns to her, anger blossoming in his chest. 

His restraints buckle, but they hold fast and strong; they hold back his rage. The sound of Hisana’s name coming from his betrothed’s lips pierces him like a serpent’s fangs and fills him with venom and pain. 

He levels Suiko with a glance. 

Suiko raises a shoulder in defense, and her tentative stare slips to the floor. Her brows lower and knit over half-lidded eyes, eyes that search the weave of the tatami. “I know you love her,” she says, voice a throaty rasp.

Byakuya stands wordless. Unable to offer even the weakest of comforts. Part of him—the part of him chained to duty—knows he has an obligation to ease Suiko’s mind. But, he doesn’t know the steps, the protocol. He isn’t practiced at soothing tears. 

Instead, he watches as the defeat crashes over her. Her eyes glisten, and her face blanches. But, she refuses his stare as she reaches for her composure. “I thought that maybe,” her voice breaks on an uneasy breath, “maybe time might make this arrangement more tolerable. That I could convince you to find some affection for me.”

Suiko ruffles her silks a little, and, meekly, she lifts her head, eyes indirectly focused on him. “I wrote to her,” she confesses on a whisper. 

“What?” he demands, voice bladed, gaze sharp as razor-wire.

Suiko turns her cheek and nods. “Yes, I asked Hisana for advice.” Her fingers work the tie to the satchel at her side, and her hands dive into the mouth of the bag. She retrieves a few messily stuffed envelopes and sets them on the table. 

As much as Byakuya wants to rebuke Suiko, he can’t. Speechless, he stares into the evidence of her attempts to win him to her side.

“I’m not her,” says Suiko, head lowering at the realization. “I don’t play the koto, and I don’t love evening walks, and I don’t know how to perform a tea service, and I don’t like ikebana or dance. And, I don’t think I could’ve done for another person what I’ve asked her to do for me.” She glances up at him with a watery stare. “If she isn’t responding to your correspondence then she’s not receiving it,” continues Suiko, “If you’d like me to—”

“No,” interrupts Byakuya. As much as he wants to speak to Hisana, he isn’t so heartless as to make his fiancée the go-between. 

“I realize now that it was foolish of me to think I could replace her in your heart,” she says softly, some of the words chasing down her throat when she inhales stiffly.

At this confession, the anger in him quiets, and the tension that once locked the muscles in his face begins to melt away. 

“But, I would still like to be your friend,” murmurs Suiko softly, setting a glossy ebony brush holder on the table. 

Byakuya’s gaze dips to the table to find that she has set out the items to practice calligraphy. He knows without her ever saying a word that Suiko has done this at Hisana’s suggestion. Suddenly, everything about the last three weeks slowly clicks into place in his head.

The evening walk that Suiko insisted on. Poetry. Spicey food. The bellflowers. Now, calligraphy. These are all things he loves, but these are not things he loves with Suiko. 

Byakuya shuts his eyes, and his heart goes still.

He has been so incredibly selfish. He has single-mindedly pursued his desires without considering how those desires affected those around him. In so doing, he has neglected his duties to his family, to Suiko, and to Hisana. 

His duty to his betrothed, especially, he has blundered his way through, leaving Hisana exposed. He exposed her to the hurt and the machinations of not only his family, but the Heishi family, and Tadahiro. He hadn’t even stopped to notice that, behind his back, Hisana has been carefully trying to smooth over his infractions. Even now, offering guidance to his betrothed so that he might find this arrangement more bearable.

Fortunately for them both, Suiko isn’t cruel.

His shoulders sag, and, with some reluctance, he goes to Suiko’s side and takes a seat on the mat beside her. 

Shock sparks a light in Suiko’s emerald gaze and brings color to her cheeks. For a long moment, she gapes at him. Gaping, however, morphs into a thin hopeful smile when he settles into his sitting mat. 

“Hisana said you loved calligraphy,” she murmurs. Kindly, Suiko offers him the letters she received from Hisana. “Here, you can read her thoughts. There’s nothing—”

He knows Suiko is trying to be helpful, but he can’t. “No,” he cuts her off. “I’m not the intended audience for those thoughts.”

Suiko nods sheepishly. “She said you were a good teacher. You’re patient and kind.” She hands him a brush and slides a piece of parchment in front of him. “She loves you, too.”

His heart sputters. “She said that?”

Suiko’s brows lift, and a smile spreads across her face. 

Shame burns his cheeks. Maybe he was too effusive in his hope. 

“Her actions, milord,” says Suiko, fingers tapping the stack of hastily pieced together envelopes, “speak to her heart.” 

He nods, wordlessly counting the number of Hisana’s letters that Suiko has received. 

How painful it must have been for her to extend this kindness to Suiko and to him. If the roles had been reversed, he doubts he could’ve done the same.

“Should that be the word we try?” asks Suiko, gaze glued to the paper. “Heart?”

“No,” the answer rushes out of him, quick and bladed. 

That word, “heart,” like so many other things, belongs to Hisana. He remembers agonizing over the calligraphy for the word. He had locked himself in his room for almost an entire day, absorbed in the task of making the composition just right so that he could present it to Hisana as a gift. By the end, he had been almost too afraid to give it to her.

Hisana had cried upon receiving it. And, that’s when he knew: She was his, and he was hers. Their fates had been bound.

Dropping his gaze to Suiko, Byakuya sees the anxiety drawing lines across her forehead, and he offers her another word for their calligraphy. “Friendship,” he says.

“Friendship,” she repeats, lips thinning into a small, jagged smile, “That’s perfect.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts while writing this chapter: (1) THANK YOU for reading. Seriously, THANK YOU. It gives me *life*. (2) So this chapter got out of hand, and I had to break it up. It’s still long. So sorry. :-\ (3) So happy to tie the Tax Man thread (almost tied up in a bow; there are more Chambers schemes and plots in the next chapter). (4) Suiko deserves a Nice Guy with a Normal Family; she would *love* him and shower him with questionable-quality homemades. (5) Byakuya is a brat. Like peak brat at the beginning. (He comes around. A little. If you squint. At the end.) (6) Ginrei deserves bratty Byakuya. (7) Tadahiro is The Worst. Like Snidely-Whiplash-tying-people-to-train-tracks awful. (Byakuya drew the short straw on romantic rivals for sure.) (8) Maybe about 3 more chapters to go and then *done* with this arc.


End file.
